


Wait For It

by Wheely_Jessi



Series: Song Shots [2]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angsty introspection with hope, Basically I watched Hamilton yesterday and it gave me feels, Childhood, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Songfic, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: Exhausted whilst trying to pack up the last of her father's effects, Patsy muses on what it means to be the one who survived...again.





	Wait For It

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is half an apology for my radio silence this week on _Hopes and Fears_ (I'm at a crucial point in my thesis so that's needed to take priority) and half simply something I couldn't not write. I saw _Hamilton_ yesterday (having booked ages ago, of course) and hearing 'Wait For It' live really hit home - both for me and for how I feel about Patsy.
> 
> Hence the title. If you wanna listen along, it's here: https://open.spotify.com/track/7EqpEBPOohgk7NnKvBGFWo?si=UGVKRv8iRlOouJQduSkT1Q

_Death doesn't discriminate_  
_Between the sinners and the saints,_  
_it takes and it takes and it takes_  
_and we keep living anyway._  
_We rise and we fall_  
_and we break_  
_and we make our mistakes._  
_And if there's a reason I'm still alive_  
_when everyone who loves me has died_  
_I'm willing to wait for it._

~

Right. That was everything. All organised.

The obituary had been written and sent into _The Times_ with barely any input from her, except the part about him being survived by a loving daughter. Because she was. Loving, that is. And always would be. Just as he had been – _always_ had been – a loving father. She knew that now. And she had told him so.

She was so glad she had come. She was so glad she was here.

Even if it had brought up other things she would far rather have kept hidden. Thankfully, since that final day, she had been too busy to think about them. Too busy putting his requests into action. Thank goodness they had shared such a preference (no, penchant) for forward planning. It meant the funeral had gone off as well as such things could be expected to; without a hitch, at any rate.

Now there were just endless evenings in which to pack…which was why she had come in here to begin with, and somehow ended up flopped in a heap on his bed. That was allowed, though, wasn’t it? In the initial aftermath, at least? She supposed so – but she wasn’t completely sure. For all her apparently intimate acquaintance with grief, there had been quite the gap since she had last “lost” anyone, and she had forgotten how it felt. Not that even mourning Mama and Grace had been comparable, despite the relative proximity of their sickness.

Not least because then, after Grace, she had been alone.

Papa had still been alive, of course, but unbeknownst to her; and therefore her loneliness had had no limits. In the cold emptiness of her still-childlike consciousness, everyone who loved her had died, and yet (painfully) somehow she had persisted to survive. And, at least until the war was over, she had had no choice but to wait it out. So, in an effort to tease even the tiniest bit of sense from the mangled mess inside her mind, she had latched onto the only reasonable reason to live – a need to nurse. If she got out of that awful place alive, she could go back to school (proper school, however much she might have loved her lessons at home) and get an education which would equip her with the necessary knowledge to ensure others would not have to suffer as she had done. As _they_ had done.

And so she had.

Because persistence had felt even more paramount after Papa had (seemed to have) practically disowned her.

Little had her little self known how significant, no, vital, that career choice would prove to be when she eventually found her way back to this part of the world – back “home”? – to do her daughterly duty and offer an irreligious approximation of the last rites to her last remaining relative. Not that her medical knowledge could have saved him any more than it could have saved them; but at least she had kept him comfortable and secure. As he had done, for her, once upon a time – before the world had turned so upside down that those words no longer held their designated definitions.

She had done her best. Just as he had.

Why, then, did she feel so like she had failed?

Why, then, did she hurt this much?

Everyone who loved her had died, and (yet again) she was still alive. That was why. Except no. Not everyone. Her darling Deels…but even her belligerent brunette would likely have given up after one more (two more, three more, four more) of her letters had gone unanswered.

All previous evidence suggested she wasn’t worth waiting for, anyway. Patsy – Patience literally personified – perennially patient because others could not do her the same courtesy.

Although that wasn’t entirely true. Not only had Delia not died, she had come back. Not unchanged, but undiminished, and if her darling could do it then so could she. Her language might be lagging, but she had always been better at deeds than words, and she had no reason to linger here now. Not any longer.

That settled it. She would go. She could get a speedy passage tomorrow if she pulled some strings. These were the perks of having a parent in the shipping industry and (whilst ordinarily she would baulk at such tactics) Delia deserved for her not to delay. Particularly as she was still incapable of putting pen to paper.

Yes. She would go. And, in a fitting tribute to the childhood she was simultaneously leaving behind and carrying with her, she would sit like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.

Was this not love indeed?

She liked to think it was – if only because it allowed her to fathom (fashion) a reason to keep going when the going got tough.

It might not appear immediately, but she was willing to wait for it, and she had an _infinitely_ greater chance of succeeding with her “Welsh Wonder” by her side.

Since she had survived, she supposed she ought to thrive. And so she would. Eventually. For them.

Was this not love indeed?


End file.
